


what kind of man

by karnsteins



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Post-Canon, fluff but not really, mostly furiosa's thoughts, speculative fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 02:54:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4288056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karnsteins/pseuds/karnsteins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Longing isn’t unfamiliar to Furiosa. It’s always been beneath her skin, buried underneath anger, resentment, loss.</p>
<p>(or: furiosa can't get max out of her head.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	what kind of man

Longing isn’t unfamiliar to Furiosa. It’s always been beneath her skin, buried underneath anger, resentment, loss.

Longing for a home she felt she would no longer be worthy of, longing for familiar faces, for her mother’s touch, for another life. All of those she’d carried with her for years, had been accustomed to the weight of it.

Love? Romantic love? _That_ had never truly been there. Who had that kind of love in a world so emptied, so wretched? The love she had was for home, for Splendid’s voice, for Toast’s scowl, for the Ace’s loyalty, for Cheedo’s innocence, for the Dag’s insults, for Capable’s strength. In the short time she’d been reunited, she had love for the Valkyrie’s familiarity, for the other women’s culture.

That kind of love, she could carry, that kind of love she could never tire of.

In the daysweeksmonths of the Citadel changing, in fixing what was broken, it creeps up on her, that new kind of wanting. Strange, new, it lingers over the memory of the low sound of Max’s voice, turns over the memory of helping her stand, sinks into the hope (the frustration, the anger, the _emotion_ ) he gave her.

It’s so different, to wake in the middle of the night half ready to call him Fool again, to wanting to ask him questions he could not answer.

The days are no better, her eyes always pausing on the horizon, hoping for more than a glimpse, almost willing to pray for a sign.

The desert doesn’t give him up, and like the Green Place, like her mother’s love, like the memory of so many fallen, Furiosa hooks her fingers into what she has left and keeps it to herself.

 

 

( _“max,” he rasps, hands warm on her cold skin, “my name is max.”_ )

**Author's Note:**

> possibly the first in a three part not that connected series


End file.
